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“There was no way any of us could have known. Bad luck was all there was to it. She shouldn’t have gone back in without you there.”
Each year, tens of thousands of letters are sent to and left at Juliet’s tomb in Verona, each seeking counsel on questions of the heart. And amazingly, each letter is answered by a legion of volunteers called the Juliet Club.
“Just ’cause someone’s gone doesn’t mean they’re not still a part of us.”
No one loved is ever truly gone. And if we keep them in our heart”—she touches her fist to her chest—“we are able to keep them with us. My way of doing that is to collect things I know my second mom would like.”
“True. But some battles are so worthy, it’s glorious even to fail.”
Pigs is what they’re calling us. Short for capitalist pigs,
only when you lose the desire for the things that don’t matter do you start to have fun.
My pulse pounds out of rhythm, the feeling akin to the moment before I stuck my hand in the trap, knowing to reach out is to risk losing another part of myself, a piece I might never get back and from which I will not recover.
anger is a wasted emotion, more detrimental to the bearer than the target.
